Brother Mine
by Nova-chan
Summary: The first time Mycroft met Sherlock. Now beta'd! Thank you Aqua-lily6!
1. Chapter 1

If Mycroft lived to be 100, he would never understand why people loved _babies_ so much. They were too little to do anything for themselves, too noisy and demanding for anyone else to get anything done, and just blatantly disgusting in the realm of bodily functions.

It irritated him that their insignificant accomplishments were praised and yelled about, while his own noteworthy accomplishments were given a crooked smile and a "Why aren't you outside playing, Mycroft?"

He remembered a particular bundle of annoyance that came in the form of Mummy's college friend's infant child. Catalan, as she was called, was seventy-five centimetres of gurgling drool and peculiar noises. Catalan's mother saw no reason that Catalan couldn't roam the house freely while she and Mummy discussed their golden days at Uni.

Mycroft had been trying to avoid all the fuss. He didn't particularly enjoy the company of strangers until he had had a chance to observe them on the sly first. So, he had hidden in the laundry room, where the air vent sat at just the right angle to pick up on the conversations of anyone downstairs.

Mycroft didn't know that babies could climb stairs. He had been awfully frightened when his hiding space was invaded by a tiny stumbling child with a big pink bow on its head.

"No, no," he said, standing up and trying to gently usher the baby back into the hallway. "Go on…go back to your Mummy…"

Catalan had never seen a little boy of Mycroft's age before, and was quite fascinated by his soft voice and small stature. She followed him with open arms even as he tried to back into a corner. Mycroft's only plausible solution was to lead her downstairs and back to her blissfully ignorant mother.

"Oh, Mycroft!" said Mummy when he crept by the sitting room. "Come and meet Cecilia, my old friend."

Mycroft nodded, shook the woman's hand, displeased by the cheery jangling of her jewelry as her arm wobbled back and forth. Little

Catalan babbled into the room with them, Mummy smiled impishly at the oblivious baby. "Mycroft, why don't you take Catalan to see your toys?"

Mycroft blanched. There was nothing the boy hated more than people touching his toys. A baby girl touching them just added insult to injury. That was the day he swore he would never entertain a baby so long as he lived.

/

Mummy was fat and incredibly excited. She and father had told him that his baby sibling was growing inside of her. He found this disgusting and wrong. And he didn't believe it for a second. How could the baby possibly get inside his Mummy to grow? It was completely illogical!

Then, on the day he was supposed to read a poem in front of his whole class (which he had secretly quite been looking forward to), Nana came to the school and took him out early. She was shaking, she was so excited. She chattered endlessly about how Mycroft was about to be a big brother, how the baby was on its way, how it was so sweet that Mummy had been rocking in her chair reading to the baby when it started coming. That just confused Mycroft more about where the baby was. Why would Mummy be reading to a baby that was inside her belly? Everyone needed to get their stories straight because at the moment they really weren't matching up .

Then, of all things, he and Nana just sat in the hospital, waiting and waiting for what seemed like hours. What a slow baby! Despite himself, as the time dragged on, he couldn't help but feel more than a little worried. Maybe the baby was sick. Maybe Mummy was sick. He kept his concerns to himself, seeing how Nana was smiling like a nutter.

Then finally, just when Mycroft was really beginning to get worked up, Father came rushing down the corridor to meet them. He was dressed in a surgeon's clothes, looking really sweaty and tired, but the grin plastered across his face was unmistakable. Nana rushed to meet him, chattering at a frequency that Mycroft wasn't even capable of hearing. Mycroft stayed in his chair, trying to look uninterested, while he listened intently to the conversation.

Father eventually came over and knelt beside Mycroft, getting on his height level as he often did when he was about to say something important. "Mycroft, would you like to come meet the baby?"

Mycroft couldn't say no. It would be rude. He would entertain his family's silly fantasy of enjoying the newborn baby, but he didn't have to truly care. He didn't. Babies were a bother, a pain in the neck, and he promised himself that he wouldn't talk to this one until it was at least seven, like him.

If Father looked tired, Mummy looked completely exhausted. But, she was still Mummy and she still smiled at him like she always had.

Oh, God, she was holding the thing. Everyone was looking at him, expecting him to go meet the baby. Mycroft was not above placating adults for his own convenience, so he confidently walked over to the bed and tried to catch a glimpse of the baby's head. Mummy had it wrapped up in a big, soft blanket, and she had to unwind it a bit to reveal his new sibling's face.

Mycroft was normally so discrete with his thoughts, but the shock of seeing this red, alien thing with its scrunched face and overly large crossed eyes was enough to make him lose his control temporarily. "What's wrong with it?" he asked. It didn't't look anything like babies he had seen in books. It was meant to be a normal pink human colour not purple like a beetroot!

Mummy frowned and then laughed. "He's just new, Mycroft," she said. "He's had a rough day, don't be too hard on him."

So it was a brother. That brought some relief, but not much. Nana popped over to the opposite side of the bed and squealed, making Mycroft flinch. "What's his name?" she asked, putting a wrinkly finger to the baby's wrinkly face.

Mummy and Father exchanged a smile. "His name is Sherlock," said Mummy, affectionately.

Nana tutted. "Oh, Love, why do you choose such unusual names?"

Mycroft didn't think it was unusual. He thought it was neat, like his own name.

Mummy was very, very tired, so a nurse brought in a little rolling bed to lay the baby in while Mummy rested. Father climbed into the bed next to Mummy and they both went to sleep. Nana announced that she was going to go call everyone, and don't bother the baby, Mycroft, and try to be quiet Mycroft, and don't leave the room, Mycroft.

She skittered out of the room, still talking to herself or Mycroft or the baby, Mycroft couldn't tell. Mycroft grimaced as he turned around. He was alone with the baby. Might as well check on it; see if it's still working.

Mycroft peered into the cot. The baby had managed to kick off the blankets and was wriggling around like an earthworm. 'Already trying to be uncooperative,' Mycroft thought staring at the mittens the baby was wearing, and the little wool cap on his head. Why all these accessories? Surely they weren't going to let the baby out to play in the snow.

Mycroft had promised not to talk to the baby until he was seven, but some things just had to be said. "All right, Sherlock, listen to me. I don't want you to start interrupting my life. I like the way things are, and it would be best if you could just stay to yourself and entertain Mummy and Nana, and I will be nice to you for appearance sake."

Sherlock babbled thoughtfully. "There, now I think that's a fair agreement, what do you say?" Mycroft nodded to himself as if the baby was in concurrence.

He started toward the chair in the corner where he could look out the window and watch the people in the hospital yard, when to no great surprise, a frustrated whine started up behind him. Mycroft went back to the bassinet slowly, not wanting to encourage the baby to cry at him, but still trying to figure out what was wrong.

The baby was trembling and whimpering, holding its legs and arms in the air like it might turn over and do a somersault. "What?" said Mycroft, looking at the quivering creature. He spied the baby's chattering lips. "You must be cold," Mycroft observed. He tucked the blankets back around Sherlock, tightly enough that he would stay tucked in. "Now, don't wiggle out of there this time and you'll stay warm."

A stealthy little hand had wound its way around Mycroft's finger. Sherlock pulled the finger toward his mouth and Mycroft pulled away, disgusted. "Don't do that!" Mycroft gasped. Sherlock giggled. Mycroft attempted to glare him down. "I'm going to be watching you very closely," Mycroft promised, crossing his arms.

/

Thanks so much to Aqua-Lily6 for betaing for me! :D:D:D


	2. Chapter 2

Nana called it 'the crying disease', Father called it 'baby colic,' and Mummy called it, "Shh, Sherlock, it's all right, Mummy's here, please stop crying."

Mycroft called it a defective baby. They hadn't even had the baby for

a month and it was already broken! The repetitive noise that it emitted at various times of the day had to be a sign of bad wiring or something!

When Mycroft brought this up to his exhausted parents, Father had told him that babies didn't come with warranties, and no, Mycroft, we're not going to return him.

Mycroft couldn't find silence anywhere in the entire house, so he was forced to go outside in the cold if he wanted to think at all. During the day, when the baby was sleeping, everyone was afraid to make a sound, worried that the baby might wake up and start crying again. Then everyday when the sun started going down, the baby would start screaming and wouldn't stop until after Mycroft's bedtime.

After this had been going on for two weeks, Father started having to go to work everyday at sundown. 'Lucky for him,' Mycroft thought. Now it was just Mycroft and Mummy alone with the wailing baby. Only now, it was a lot worse because without Father there, Mummy was out of her depth and would cry right along with Sherlock. She cried while rocking the baby, cried while trying to sing to the baby and cried when the baby couldn't hold a dummy in its mouth because it was screaming so much.

One night while Mycroft was lying on his bed, trying to read a book with his hands over his ears, Mummy came into his room, carrying the broken, defective baby. Sherlock was still crying, but Mummy wasn't. She still looked very sad, though.

"Mycroft, sweetheart," said Mummy, holding the writhing baby to her chest, "Mummy needs to go take a bath. Will you watch your brother while I go have a little break?"

Mycroft frowned. He really didn't want to do that, but Mummy was looking at him so hopefully. He nodded, closing up his book reluctantly, it was just getting to a very interesting bit. Mummy smiled, but it wasn't her smile. It was a stranger's, one that Mycroft had only seen on TV before. Mummy's chin wiggled when her mouth turned up, and her eyes were watery. It made no sense.

"Go sit in your chair," Mummy instructed. "You remember the way I taught you to hold him?" Mycroft sat in his chair and nodded. Mummy put the baby in his lap, resting its back against Mycroft's arm, and left the room without another word.

Sherlock screamed and kicked and squirmed. Mycroft held him, impatiently counting out how long Mummy would be gone. She usually took showers, so he wasn't too sure about how long she would take in a bath. He guessed twenty minutes. Way too long to deal with Sherlock when he was like this. "Sherlock," said Mycroft, over the wailing. "Do you remember that day when you were born and I made a deal with you? You were supposed to be good and keep Mummy happy." Sherlock continued screaming. "You are being a nuisance," said Mycroft. "And a brat. This is not going to work."

Mycroft didn't feel sorry for his little brother. He didn't. He felt sorry for himself, having to listen to a screaming baby every night. But Sherlock did seem incredibly unhappy. Mummy and Father and Nana had tried many, many things to get him to stop. They had bounced him, put him in a swing, driven him around in the car, put on music, picked him up, put him down, put soy in his baby formula, and even massaged his belly. Mycroft was beginning to think that Sherlock was just a miserable person. Mycroft could relate to that.

As he sat there, with baby Sherlock kicking and crying in his lap, Mycroft tried to brainstorm ideas that his parents and Nana hadn't thought of to get Sherlock to stop crying. Suddenly with a little spasm, Sherlock started hiccupping. That didn't stop him crying, however; in fact, it seemed to make the screaming worse. Between the hiccups and the jilted screams, he was starting to sound like Nana's old car when it didn't want to start up. It made a similar frustrated noise because the engine wouldn't turn over.

And then a connection formed in Mycroft's brain. It was silly. It was off-

color. It went against everything Mummy had told him about holding the

baby. But he tried it anyway.

Gently, slowly, Mycroft turned Sherlock onto his stomach across his lap, the baby's head lolling over the side of Mycroft's knee. Sherlock didn't seem to know what to make of this, and joy and excitement, he was silent.

Ten minutes later, alarmed that she couldn't hear her baby crying, Mummy came running into the room, looking frantic. Mycroft felt a little hurt when Mummy looked at him like she thought he might have murdered his brother. But, soon after, she was hugging him and weeping into his hair, so he

decided to forgive her for her momentary lapse of judgment.


	3. Chapter 3

The first word Sherlock learned was No. He didn't say it in a cute, detached way that babies often do when they say their first word, either. Sherlock seemed to fully grasp the word's meaning and would shout it at everyone who dared to be contrary to his wishes.

The first time he said it, Mummy was so excited that she had no idea that the reason he had said it was because he didn't want to be picked up. She picked him up immediately and carried him off to show Father, eliciting three more "No!"s on the way.

Over time it became clear that Sherlock was saying the word with intent, protesting against everything from hugs and kisses to being put to bed. Mummy and Nana thought that it was "Just darling!" Father didn't have much to say at all anymore. Mycroft was just glad the baby wasn't walking yet.

Mycroft, who never tried to do anything to the baby or make Sherlock do

anything, quickly became the most fascinating person Sherlock knew. He

would stop bouncing or trying to get away from Mummy whenever Mycroft passed by the room, and just stare at his brother in awe. Mycroft thought that it was kind of creepy.

Sherlock's second word was "My-koff," uttered following Mummy

summoning Mycroft to the room by shouting his name. Mummy had been so thrilled at the two-syllable word, that she immediately forgot why she had called for Mycroft at all. Mycroft stood in the doorway awkwardly, while Mummy talked persistently at the baby, trying to get it to say more words. "Can you say Mummy? Please say Mummy! Say baby. You can say baby. I know you can. You are a baby. Say baby. Can you say baby?"

Mycroft wanted to die. He was fairly certain that the baby had made

Mummy go brainless.

Not long after that, Mycroft's life as he had come to enjoy it was over.

Sherlock learned how to walk. For some reason, that meant that it was

partially Mycroft's responsibility to make sure the baby didn't get into

anything in the house. Baby-proofing the cabinets had only slowed Sherlock down a little. By far, his favourite thing to do was to dump things over his own head, whether it be a sack of flour or laundry soap or potting soil. Then, as if he was shocked and offended by the results of doing such a thing, he would cry. And Mycroft was scolded.

Mycroft was inventive in trying to find ways to trap Sherlock in his crib or at least in his bedroom. But, Sherlock always managed to foil them all.

One afternoon, Mummy went out to water her garden. Mycroft was left in charge of watching the baby, and don't take your eyes off him for a minute, Mycroft, I'm counting on you!

Mycroft didn't need to watch the baby that closely. There was just no way

that Sherlock would be able to get out of his crib after Mycroft had covered the top of it with a blanket and then tied the blanket to the four posters of the crib. With a smirk at the trapped baby, he left to grab a couple of books from his room.

When he returned, there was no baby, and the blanket had been used to

rappel down the side of the crib. It was the first time in his life that Mycroft had panicked.

The resulting search had panicked Mummy as well, so much so that she

called an electrician out to check the air ducts when every inch of the house had been looked over.

Finally, they found Sherlock, sitting on top of the fridge, his expression

almost defiant. No one could figure out how he managed to get up there.

When Mummy glared up at him, hands on her hips, Sherlock had said his

next word, "Uh oh."

/

Marill: Once again, thanks to my beta, Aqua-lily6 3. Any suggestions on further chapters? I'm kinda stuck. :/


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock was four, he carried two items wherever he went: a knotted, ripped silk blanket called Silky, and a stuffed cat simply named Cat. Mummy washed them whenever he happened to drop and forget about them. Father mocked him, telling Sherlock that he was still a little baby, in an ill-conceived attempt to break him of the habit. Mycroft was far too busy to notice such things. After all, he was eleven, going on twelve, and certain things were expected of him. Often, it was expected that Mycroft would watch out for his younger brother, make sure he didn't leave the house in the middle of the night or something. But caring or even noticing Sherlock's eccentricities was far beyond Mycroft's range of concerns.

Except on those occasions when watching out for Sherlock coincided with the child's eccentricities.

Mycroft wouldn't have noticed anything out of the ordinary if a howling wind hadn't brought his attention to the bedroom window. He looked clinically at the overcast sky, wondering if it was about to rain. Then he noticed a dark little shape running across the yard. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, clutching Cat under his arm. He stopped underneath a big tree and stared up at the branches. Then he started climbing it.

_Danger, danger, retrieve_, Mycroft's brain warned. Suddenly his legs were carrying him away from the window and down the stairs. When Mycroft made it to the tree, Sherlock's foot was just out of his reach.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock turned on him with an angry glare. "I'm climbing the tree!" he yelled down.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. Then, "Why?"

"My Silky is caught in it," Sherlock replied, pointing up at the branches. "The wind took it, and now I'm getting it back."

Mycroft peered up at the tree, spotting the ratty blanket about two metres down from the very top. "You're going to get hurt," Mycroft warned.

Sherlock paused. Then he dropped the stuffed cat daintily over Mycroft's head. "Mycroft, hold Cat," he said.

"Sherlock, I am not climbing up there to get you," Mycroft warned, awkwardly holding the toy animal. "Neither am I prepared to carry you inside the house once you've broken your neck, and then tell Mummy that I let you get hurt!"

Sherlock, oblivious to Mycroft's concerned ranting, had just clambered up onto one of the thicker branches. He stood up straight, then stretched his arms up, to see if he could reach the blanket. He failed by about half a metre. "Almost!" he called down to Mycroft.

Mycroft was experiencing another of his panic attacks. He was torn between staying to make sure Sherlock didn't fall, and running into the house for help. He decided to stay, unable to tear his gaze away from his young brother's footwork.

With a little yelp, Sherlock's foot slipped and he scraped his face against the trunk of the tree. Mycroft gasped, but was otherwise frozen. Sherlock managed to catch himself in a split-second and continued on up.

"Sherlock, get down this minute!" Mycroft cried, in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

"But I'm almost there!" Sherlock called down, grasping at the fringed bottom of the blanket as it drifted about in the heavy wind. Finally, pushing himself up on tiptoes, Sherlock snatched the blanket and pulled it down from the higher limbs. After knocking off some of the debris that it had gathered, he stuck it inside his shirt for better transport.

By the time Sherlock was back on the ground, Mycroft was hardly able to stand. He knelt down and hugged the four-year-old tightly. "Sherlock…" he whispered. Suddenly realizing that Sherlock was definitely _not _hugging him back, Mycroft released him. "You must be more careful!" he admonished. "You could have gotten killed!"

"Give me Cat," Sherlock demanded, hand out.

Mycroft handed the toy over, rolling his eyes. "Go inside before it starts raining," he ordered, half-heartedly.


	5. Chapter 5

Marill: I'm a little back and forth with it now, by age standards, but my muse does as he likes. Also, my boss' baby is three, and I've been seeing a lot of her, so my muse latches onto little snatches of conversation and mannerisms when I talk to her. This chapter, however, wasn't born out of such an encounter. I literally got into my bath and told myself "You're not getting out until you come up with the next chapter." So, without further unnecessary chatter, I give you chapter six. ^^

/

When Sherlock was three, he began to show promise as an amateur chemist, and a household terror. After four terrifying calls to poison control, everything that couldn't be safely ingested had to be moved into the tall cupboard. A bolt lock was placed near the very top of the door so Sherlock would have no way of getting into it.

No one really expected this to stop him from "experimenting," however.

One Friday, in the December of Sherlock's third year, Mummy and Nana left Sherlock and Mycroft with Ellie the sitter, while they went shopping for Christmas. Mycroft didn't _need_ a sitter. Mummy promised him that Ellie was only watching Sherlock. Mycroft promised Mummy that she was only going to be watching telly.

Three hours after Mummy left, and two and a half hours since Ellie had moved from the sofa, Mycroft was sitting pleasantly at his desk, reading from his classic literature assignment. He heard a little yelp, a lot of splashing, and then something fiercely scrabbling down the hall.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and tried to count to ten to lessen his reaction when he went to see what had happened. As he passed by the landing of the upstairs hallway, he spotted the top of Ellie's head poking up from the sofa, showing no signs of noticing the commotion upstairs.

He entered the bathroom apathetically. The wastebasket was turned over; there was water and suds all over the floor, and more suds than Mycroft had even seen in the bathtub; and there was no mischievous dark-haired child in sight.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said flatly.

The bubbles in the tub moved.

Mycroft was unimpressed. "What are you doing?"

The bubbles separated like the Red Sea and a small foam-covered head poked out of the mist. "I'm in the bubbles," said Sherlock seriously.

Mycroft's eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw the state of his brother. "Why are you wearing all your clothes in the bath?" he cried. Then upon further inspection, "What are all those scratches on your face?"

"I'm not taking a bath, Mycroft!" Sherlock countered. "I can't take a bath by myself, only if Mummy watches me."

Mycroft was staggered by his brother's conclusion that wearing one's clothing in the bathtub signified that it wasn't an actual bath. "The scratches, Sherlock," he repeated.

"Beth wanted to go swimming, but then he changed his mind," Sherlock answered, pouting.

"The CAT?" Mycroft exclaimed, eyes bugging out again. He counted to ten once more. "Sherlock, Beth is a girl cat, for one thing. Second, you know she hates water!"

Sherlock glared. "She was sniffing the bubbles, and I thought she wanted to swim with me. Then she scratched me and ran away…"

"Mummy is going to kill me!" Mycroft fretted. Then, after a moment, he smiled. "I mean, she's going to kill Ellie."


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft, at the age of thirteen and eight tenths thought that he was desensitized to his brother's erratic and random behaviour. Everyone in the house had gotten accustomed to six-year-old Sherlock disappearing inside the house and out for hours at a time. Mother said that he was going through a "phase." Father said that he needed a good smacking. Mycroft worried about Sherlock, but nothing he said or implied could get the boy to change.

The household rule was that if Sherlock had been gone long enough to miss two meals, Mycroft was mandated to go out looking for him. On a Sunday in October, Sherlock missed breakfast and lunch, and it was getting dark out when Mycroft set out to find him.

Mycroft first checked the small gap underneath the house where wires, small insects, rodents, and occasionally Sherlock frequented. He took a small torch and shone it around and saw only Beth's eyes glaring at him. Poor Beth. She wasn't allowed to stay in the house anymore after she had bitten Sherlock's hand so badly that he'd needed stitches. Sherlock had had that coming, as far as Mycroft was concerned. Sherlock had been trying to wrestle with her inside the dishwasher after all.

With a fretful head shake at Beth, Mycroft got back to his feet and continued looking for his badly behaved sibling. He stood facing the backyard with all its little hills and dips and the thicket of trees. Mycroft shouted for his brother a few times and then strutted out toward the forest with a longsuffering sigh.

He didn't find Sherlock for about twenty minutes after he, himself, had almost gotten lost. He had long since stopped his irritated shouting and was looking at treetops and behind shrubs when a sober, resigned voice said his name quietly.

Mycroft jolted to a stop and turned angrily toward the origin of the voice. He immediately felt the blood draining away from his face, leaving him pale and dizzy.

Sherlock was sat there, leaning up against a tree trunk, his left arm covered in blood. Mycroft was at his brother's side in an instant, saying things that he wasn't even aware of. Sherlock just stared at him as if he were unaware that he was badly hurt, and that Mycroft was just getting into his personal space for no reason, like always, like everyone else did.

Mycroft finally started to hear his own voice as he questioned his brother desperately, frantically. "Sherlock, what happened? How did you hurt yourself?" Mycroft was running his fingers across Sherlock's injured arm, disconcerted that the blood had dried and caked onto the shirt sleeve, stiffening it.

"A plant hurt me," Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft looked up at his face. "A plant hurt you? What kind of plant was it?"

Sherlock, whose face had been completely casual before, now had tears starting to fill his eyes. "One on the ground with long, sharp arms," he said, as if he couldn't believe that anything in his little forest, one of his beloved specimens, had hurt him

"Why didn't you come home? Why didn't you find an adult to take care of this?" Mycroft asked, gauging the length of the gash and the amount of blood on his brother's shirt.

"I didn't want them to be mad," Sherlock answered. Then, with his voice lowered, "I didn't want Daddy to say that I was stupid."

Mycroft carried him all the way back to the house, gangly limbs supporting tiny, feather-light Sherlock.

/

Visits to the hospital were always unbearably slow for Mycroft. Occasionally, if Sherlock were up for it, the two of them would spend time guessing the nature of other patient's injuries. But not today. Not with Sherlock half-insensible with shock and blood loss and Mother flitting around like a moth.

Sherlock always enjoyed the examination process, unable to resist questioning the hospital staff about what they were doing. This time, he needed 18 stitches and a tetanus shot.

"Now, watch," said the friendly nurse, "and the magic pencil will disappear inside your arm."

Sherlock stared at her with morbid disappointment. The needle went into his shoulder and he was then given a caramel that he impassively handed to Mycroft.


	7. Chapter 7

It was the first Christmas where Sherlock was old enough to be capable of understanding what was going on around him. Mummy and Daddy brought down many boxes from the attic, filled to the brim with shiny, breakable, _fascinating_ things whilst Mycroft, who was supposed to be watching Sherlock, had instead found that a plate of red-sprinkled biscuits were much more appealing.

It was decided a compromise had to be made between "letting Sherlock help" and trying to distract the dark curly-haired boy.

Daddy sat on the floor, opening small paper boxes of delicate ornaments. Toddling Sherlock would then take the ornaments one by one and hold them at arms-length, completely enamoured by the endless supply of new and funny toys.

"Take it to Mummy," Daddy said for the fortieth time. Sherlock, at two years old, still somehow managed to look defiant. "Take it to Mummy and we'll open the next one." Daddy repeated encouragingly.

Mummy thanked Sherlock whenever he handed over one of the ornaments, and praised him when he took the initiative to hang them onto the tree himself. The three of them made a somewhat efficient assembly line, though Sherlock's role remained altogether rather ambiguous.

Mycroft, in the meantime, having seized Daddy's comfy armchair, was watching the news; much too old and mature to help with Christmas decorations. Although, he did still find it of some interest to watch his younger brother try to hoard all of the tree ornaments off to his bedroom. And, of course, he enjoyed his festively-decorated biscuits with a customary cup of milk.

Mummy had the foresight to place the breakable ornaments on higher branches, not that that would prevent them from breaking if Sherlock actually managed to topple over the tree; a disaster becoming increasingly likely each time Sherlock tried pulling at the brightly coloured lights.

Things were progressing somewhat acceptably.

But then Daddy opened the box containing the angel which was to go on top of the tree. She was lit up with yellow, red, and blue lights; her feathery wings sparkling. She even sang, in an eerie child-like voice, "Angels We Have Heard on High."

Sherlock practically shoved the tiny wreath ornament he was holding into Mummy's hand and Daddy did not react quickly enough: Sherlock had snatched up the angel and was staring at her, mesmerized.

"Baby," he said, inspecting the wings.

Mummy approached him slowly "She goes on top of the tree, Sherlock. She isn't a toy." Daddy was also rising to his feet. "Give that to Mummy, Sherlock."

The two parents closed in on the toddler, until, and with an almighty shriek, Sherlock ran across the sitting room to hide behind Mycroft in his chair, still holding the angel by its wings.

"Mycroft, get your brother please," Daddy said in exasperation before deciding that his and Mummy's attentions would be better served turned to the tangled lights that had been giving them all manner of grief before.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. Now Mycroft had to be involved in this charade of Christmas merriment.

Sherlock did not seem to notice Mycroft's grief. He was pressing the button on the angel's foot to make the song play again and again, and the lights to dance rhythmically across the halo and wings.

Suddenly, Mycroft slammed the leg rest back into the reclining armchair and scrambled a hand behind it to try and grab Sherlock. Sherlock shrieked again and ran off towards the direction of the stairs.

The youngest Holmes was a bit careless with the angel however and her body was ripped free from the wings he was holding onto. Sherlock stared for a moment, in confusion, before abandoning the wings and rescuing the angel from the hardwood floor where she had collapsed; this time holding her by her long, blond hair.

Mycroft looked scandalized. "Sherlock, you broke it!" he cried.

That garnered Mummy's attention once again. "Oh, no…" she murmured. "Oh, Sherlock. Well, we'll just have to find a new one."

Mycroft let out a huff, all because of his troublesome little brother. But he swiftly returned to Daddy's chair before Sherlock could steal any of his biscuits.

Sherlock, immensely satisfied that everyone was going to leave him and his new baby alone, wandered back over to the tree, dragging the angel by its hair.

"Sherlock, do you want to have a biscuit?" Mummy asked.

"No," he said, firmly.

"Go see if Mycroft will put on one of your shows on TV," Daddy suggested. "Mummy and I have a bit of a mess to worry about here."

Sherlock, ignoring this, began to reach for an ornament in the shape of a cat. He grabbed the little sparkly plastic and pulled out several of the pine needles from the tree while doing so.

Daddy picked him up and placed him away from the tree. "Sherlock, don't do that. Now, go over to your brother."

Mycroft lay back, not particularly keen to offer any assistance.

"Want that!" Sherlock cried, pointing at the tree.

"Sherlock, it's a Christmas tree," Mummy said. "It stays here so that Father Christmas can-"

"NO!" Sherlock wailed, shaking his fists in the air, the poor angel bouncing around violently with his movements. Before either parent or older brother could intervene, there was a distinct tearing sound, followed by a thud. Everyone in the room froze.

Sherlock stared at his hand. He was now holding only the angel's hair and her fake scalp. The rest of her was lying on the floor, mechanical brains jumbled in a neat pile beside her face. Sherlock looked confused, then horrified.

"Oh my god," Mummy said, quickly taking the angel's body and her scalp, and putting it away before it could permanently traumatize her child. Sherlock stared at the box long after the angel had been packed away.

Mummy then picked him up and tried to soothe him, even though Sherlock was no longer visibly upset. It was just clear that he did not know what to make of the turn of events.

From the other side of the room, Mycroft began to sing, "Angels will have _maimed_ on high…"

He would have continued the song, but Mummy and Daddy frowned at him, so he stopped.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft was fifteen and old enough (read: had proven himself responsible enough) to look after the house for two nights when Mummy and Father were away at one of Father's law assemblies. The plan had been to drag Sherlock along and let him occupy himself in the hotel while Father worked and Mummy _net_worked. However, at almost the exact last moment, Sherlock came down with a cold. Father had no time to wait on his bothersome child and fretting wife and forged ahead, starting the car.

Mummy made a snap decision that Mycroft was sure to regret.

….

That night Mycroft and Sherlock (whose cold symptoms had rapidly improved) ate cold cereal together at the family table in a parody of their normal routine. Mycroft sent his younger brother up to wash with strict orders to go to bed afterwards. Of course, Sherlock would likely be up reading, writing, and prodding at his secret mouse collection all night. Mycroft didn't care, so long as he was quiet and didn't burn down their house.

….

Four hours later, Mycroft started awake, the loudest monophonic sound imaginable assaulting his senses. Blinking in the darkness, he was able to identify the noise from a memory of it blasting in his ears when he was twelve and Sherlock had put his sweater on the stove. _Fire alarm._

"Mycroft," said an irritated little voice, which startled Mycroft again. Sherlock was standing on the other side of his bed, holding onto a shoe box with holes in the top.

"Sherlock, have you brought those mice in my room?" Mycroft asked. Somehow that had taken precedence over the fire that was going on elsewhere in the house.

"Mycroft, I can't reach the alarm. Turn it _off_."

"Why did the alarm come on, Sherlock? Why do you have those mice in my bedroom?"

"They're sensitive to the noise," Sherlock said, trying to smother the box against his chest.

"Why is the alarm going off?" Mycroft asked. He should have known better than to ask his brother more than one question at a time, as only the last one would be answered.

"Because of the smoke in the hallway," Sherlock said, succinctly.

"Should we be evacuating the house? What did you set on fire?" And right back to asking multiple questions.

"Some paper caught on fire inside my lamp. I put it out, down worry," said Sherlock.

"Why was there paper in your lamp?"

"I put it there."

Finally, Mycroft couldn't stand the beeping any longer. He rolled himself out of bed, nearly squashing Sherlock who yelped "Hey!" angrily. Mycroft stuck his feet inside his slippers and pulled his green dressing gown around himself. The boy and his rats followed him out into the hallway.

"You know, there's a reason you aren't allowed to stay at home by yourself like I am," Mycroft lectured as he noticed the thick smoky air in the hall.

"Mummy says it's because I tried to go bowling with the hamster and put Clunky in the microwave," Sherlock said, uncertain.

Mycroft stopped and glared at his brother. "You put my fish in the microwave?" he demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on, Mycroft! I didn't turn the power on!"

"It's a natural wonder that they let us have any pets at all," Mycroft said, continuing down the hall. He stopped underneath the grating alarm fastened to the wall. Standing on tiptoes, he could just reach the button. By the time he pressed it, Sherlock had taken off down the hall with the mice and slammed his door behind him.

Mycroft grumbled himself back to his own bedroom, knowing that the weekend's tomfoolery was far from over.


End file.
